


The Healing

by orphan_account



Category: Troye Sivan (Musician)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, BoyxBoy, Connor Franta - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, LGBT, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Smut, Tracob, Tyler Oakley - Freeform, drunk jacob appears once, idk im proud of this, nice jacob, troye is soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the one where troye doesn't flinch when his boyfriend touches him, the sun comes up in the morning, melting into lavender in the hopes that they could be something. jacob kisses troye and tells him everything is going to be okay, because safety transcends through his fingertips and troye finally feels at home.the one where troye and jacob are both fucked up but it seems to work.





	1. LIVEWIRE

Troye lay his head down gently on the pillow, finding comfort in the soft teal fabric. His sock-clad toes hit just the base of the Ethan-Allan couch. He dug the back of his head into the pillow, inhaling deeply, a small trace of a smile lining his lips as the faded cotton scent crossed his nose. Letting his eyelids flutter shut softly, as to block out the the pain they'd seen. He tried to believe it actually worked, maybe it did, maybe it didn't.

His foot rapped softly against the fabric, tapping along to the the strum of the seemingly timeless ukulele. Whispering the lyrics softly to himself, as he raised his milky white fingers to play the air gingerly. Soothingly as his fingers graced the air, he smiled to himself once more before setting his phone against his chest before settling his limbs down. The only sounds in the room were those of the wiry ceiling fan spinning outwardly too fast and the gentle tapping of the night-owls index finger rapping slowly on his collarbone.

A look into the room seemed to prove his existence was nothing but of pure simplicity. The red tiles lined in fours to create an intricate yet subtle flower, smooth and cool to the touch. A large vintage rug in the center of the room, (one where a coffee table sat, but that is another story for another time.) The carpet was outlined in fringed cloth, hand-stitched in the early 1920s, one made for fit for the time of Gatsby. Maybe it wasn't that grand, but, in all honesty, it had held together through the years, cleaned every six months by a steam cleaner rented from the store around the block.

Lamps using candescent bulbs in every corner of the room, sitting atop antique dressers Troye's grandfather had refurbished over the years. Oil painting lined the wall, sitting in no-frills black frames. They added a look of sophistication to the dimly lit room, adding something posh but not so overbearing you wanted to leave. The room emitted warmth and a sense of comfort as if it was screaming 'home.' Maybe it wasn't screaming that at all?

Nevertheless, Troye continued to lay on the couch, his headphones becoming loose in his ears. It was approaching two-am, not an unusual time for the boy who had grown fond of the late nights and new music finds. With his head swaying back and forth, the boy didn't even hear the door unlock.

In came Jacob, his best friend, his confidante, his first (and hopefully last) love. He'd been granted a key to the house for times when Troye needed rescuing from the hazel-eyed boy. Now, Troye didn't know he was coming, sometimes the older of the two showed up to surprise his 'angel' as Jacob called him. The eldest knew Troye would still be awake, crunching his eyes together to find thoughts he would forget by morning.

He slid his shoes off, walking towards the unaware boy. He glanced at him from afar in the most possible non-creepy way, He found joy in looking at the boy's features, the birthmark resting underneath his eye. He thought the off-color patch of skin was beautiful, complementing the boy strong jawline and soft cheeks all at once. He pulled Troye's left headphone from his ear, Troye looked up and smiled softly at him.

"H-Hey, how come you're here J?" The boy asked softly, almost in a whisper to not wake his brother or mom up. He smiled as Jacob picked up his hand, kissing the top of his knuckles.

"Sometimes, I just have to come and see my baby." He answered quickly, making Troye's heart flutter rapidly. The younger of the two looked down at his lap, a blush coating his milky-white cheeks. Jacob hooked his arm around the boy's waist, pulling him into his lap softly. He unplugged the headphones from the jack, a small spark of light coming from the gently damaged headphones.

"You've worn them out Tro, gonna have to get a you a new pair. Special for my chord finder," Troye put his hand up rejecting the stronger boys offer, Jacob just shook his head once more before humming out, "anything for my song bird."

Troye felt his breath hitch as air sucked in between his teeth. He leaned his head into the boys collarbone, seeking his comfort rather than anything around him. When Jacob entered the room everything melted away, the oil-paintings became nothing but messy sunsets and the vintage floor became nothing but a place for his feet.

Maybe that in fact was all they ever really were to anyone else, as they had not seen life through his vibrant eyes. The room was full of the things that kept Troye safe in his home, the sounds of the rackety fan to the polished pieces of oak wood. The way his body fell into the couch or the way his hand fit snuggly around the inevitable soda can sitting on the red tiles. Oh the red tiles, something Troye had adored, it was the floor he learned how to do a triple pirouette on when he was twelve. The tiles where Jacob and himself had shared their first kiss, a tale far too sweet for a moment like this.

"May I?" Jacob requested softly as he slid from underneath Troye, taking the younger boy's phone with him. He turned up the volume halfway as he stretched his hand out to Troye. The small boy placed his hand in the palm of his hazel-eyed lover, standing up slowly with assistance from the comforting boy.

Jacob set the music to half volume, placing his hands around Troye's frail waist. Troye melted into the boy's touch calmly, absorbing every piece of skin on skin contact with him. Troye let his head find Jacob's collarbone, laying right in-between the isthmus of his shoulder. An instrumental violin tune flowed from the speakers, making the whole room fade once more. The warm lights were soon Jacob's eyes, and he didn't need them to heat him anymore. He was okay, he had Jacob.

Troye felt his feet start to grow on Jacob's, his lightweight not affecting the strong boy at all. Troye sometimes found himself wondering how he'd gotten so lucky, he wasn't much to look at himself, (or so he believed) and Jacob was the catch of the town. Troye found himself breathing in the older boy's scent quite frequently, he smelt of pinewood and coffee, with just the slightest tinge of sweat, (as Jacob was an all-star athlete at school.)

The blue-eyed boy's eyelids began to grow heavy, Jacob taking charge as he swayed both of their body's together. Troye looked up and smiled weakly, becoming quite delirious from his sudden wave of tiredness.

"You're pretty," he stated slowly, watching as his boyfriend smiled sheepishly. The blue-eyed boy had of course only spoken the truth, Jacob was pretty, there was no denying that. The taller boy kissed Troye's forehead slowly, his lips lingering for just a bit too long but at the same time not long enough.

"Come on baby, let's get you to sleep." Jacob eased out, picking up the boy with what seemed no effort at all. Troye's arms were throw around his hazel-eyed walking dream, smiling into his chest before exhaling softly. Jacob walked himself and his bundle of boy that was slowly getting cold, he was met with Troye's mom in the hallway. With a cigarette in her hand, she pressed the other to Jacob's soft cheek.

"Get him to sleep please?" She requested softly, Jacob nodded before he walked away, he'd always had a hard time with Laurelle, but pushed it away for Troye's sake. Padding down the hallway in his socks, passing the framed portraits of cousins and baby pictures that all blended with another.

He found Troye's room smiling at the boy's decorations, fairy lights strung above his bed that shined a bright blue, a navy comforter with white pillows. Adorning the room was his computer sitting on a white desk, lined with cups of assorted colored pens. He smiled wider when his eyes were met with Troye's rocking chair. The chair was covered in grey fabric, it was modern and made for nursing mothers. Troye had bought it because he liked to spin the chair.

Jacob sat himself down, gathering Troye into his arms before pulling a thick quilt that was put together from strips of fabrics and shirts made by Troye's grandmother in the 90s'. Jacob rocked the chair back and forth slowly, soothing the boy in his lap. His long fingers ran up and down his back, hopefully ridding the boy of any anxiety from the day. Troye adjusted his head just once more before Jacob shushed him softly.

"Love you," the small boy mumbled out tiredly, letting his head furrow deeper into Jacob's chest.

"I love you more angel," Jacob echoed out, knowing he wouldn't get an answer as Troye had already let out a finale exhale signaling he'd fallen asleep. So maybe this was how it was supposed to feel, maybe Troye's home was not red tiles or fancy carpets, maybe it wasn't vintage light bulbs and warm fabrics, maybe it wasn't the smell of cotton or sea-breeze. Maybe it wasn't cigarette smoke that warmed his lungs in all the wrong ways or late nights searching for some sort of answer to a question unknown.

Maybe home was a pair of hazel eyes instead.


	2. BODY GOLD

Troye sat longingly on the bed, his head resting on the edge where grey plaster met window. He had already undone the window, opening the blinds slowly, cool air ghosting over his nimble fingertips. His curls rested on the wall, adorning his thin legs were a pair of light-wash yellow socks, meeting the tops of his knees. (The thought of his knees always brought joy to the magical boy, Jacob always put a smooth layer of Johnson's baby lotion on his knees.)

He inhaled deeply, in taking the brisk air, settling for the way it passed his cheeks, nipping his cherry-red lips. The rain fell gently from the sky, turning the clouds into a pallid gunmetal. Troye smiled to himself, thinking back on the times he'd kissed Jacob in the rain. It was a cliche, for sure, but maybe that was just what they had to be. The love that held the two together was more than a few simple words or gentle touches here and there. Hard to explain, it truly is.

Little instances that make up for a million lost words. Looking back on the time Troye spent himself getting lost in a pair of hazel eyes almost too bright to be real. Waking up tangled underneath the sheets in a dingy Motel 6 offside the highway. Giving dollars to panhandlers on the nicer side of town when they hadn't many dollars themselves, (Troye more so.)

Troye often found himself thinking of people, the ones who had known him and the ones he wished hadn't. The blue eyed boy remembered the first boy he'd a crush on in the third grade, his dark brown hair, almost black contrasting with light brown eyes that shone like sea glass in the light. Observing him from afar the calm eight-year-old did, not wanting to lose those around him because he looked at boys, he especially didn't want to lose Jacob either. He remembered sitting around a table, smiling slightly at the dark haired boy only to be hit with a ' you're so skinny, do you even eat ? ' That was where Troye learned to hate his body.

Troye remembered the pretty girl named Alice, they held hands for a week before they both figured out that maybe they weren't for one another. She was his friend to this day, she'd grown into something beautiful. Her full lips complimenting the apples of her cheeks, freckles sprinkled across his nose. Her light yellow hair falling by her face lightly, bangs getting in the way of her blue, almost gray eyes. She was by far one of Troye's favorite people, he wanted her to have the world. And in all honesty, she deserved it.

To etch a frown upon Troye's delicate features was something that easily came when reminded of the petite girl named Elizabeth, he often regretted letting himself get to be too much. She was a prepossessing girl, bright blue eyes to match her small frame. She spent hours weekly training at her dance academy, often perfecting the small things. It's still vivid yet void of color in Troye's mind, the words repeating over and over in his head, 'too much, can't be friends with you anymore.' Looking back on it now, he'd befriended the girl at the wrong time in his life, while he should've tried to befriend his own self first.

Troye was pulled from his bottomless pensive thoughts when a creak on the red tiles resonated throughout the otherwise empty home. He wheeled his head around, a single chocolate-brown curl toppling over his forehead. A childlike gasp escaped his mouth when he was met with Jacob's strong frame standing in the doorway. The younger boy jumped up quickly running into the hazel-eyed boys arms, skidding slightly in his yellow socks on the red tile. He burrowed into Jacob's chest, burying his head into his defined collarbone. Jacob rested his chin on top of Troye's penny colored head, breathing out slightly as he smiled to himself.

"Hey angel," he said in a stage-whisper, running his fingers up and down the almost seemingly emaciated boy's back. He picked up Troye with ease, gracing across the red tile in his navy-blue socks made for elders. Troye giggled to himself, he'd always liked the way his inamorato was able to pick him up so easily. Looking back, Troye had always been small and soft, able to be picked up by anyone really. That of course didn't matter, because Jacob always protected him.

The two fell on the bed with a soft 'oof,' making the brilliantly ultramarine eyed boy crack an even wider smile. Jacob held Troye up by the waist, easily moving him to the dips of his hipbones. Troye straddled his waist, leaning down to give Jacob purple marks on his neck. Jacob laughed, his chuckle echoing the room filling it with cherry blossoms and sea cotton. Troye leaned forward, his slender legs still hanging over Jacob's well defined thigh muscles. He laid his chest down slowly, breathing in the scent that was his lover. Easily finding the crook of his neck, Troye laid his head slowly, letting his face rest against tepid tawny skin.

The rain fell slowly, pattering the grass outside, turning the age-old dust into a sticky mud. While listening to the rain, you could feel the gelid and bitter wind gusting in from the window, simply it was cold. The breeze washed over the two bodies, which should of seemingly made the two seek coverage underneath the handmade quilt that rested on the rocking chair. But, it didn't, the nipping air had no effect on the pair of aficionado's being together. Because, well, together? They were warm enough.

After a few moments of resting silence, the smaller boy yawned before squeaking out,

"I wish we could go to the beach." He mustered out, scolding himself internally for saying such an unseasonable thing. Jacob just craned his head, looking at the boy he called angel curiously. A few more moments of silence passed before Troye began to giggle again, making the stronger boy laugh along with him. The two sat there for five minutes, laughing hysterically. Sure, nothing was really that funny, but when the person you love more than anything else laughs happily, you always want to join them on that journey.

The laughter died down, once again leaving the two males tangled together on sheets too big for the twin bed. The sound of the rain hitting the ground filled the room once more, leaving the boys in an agreeable silence. Troye was almost asleep atop his lover's chest when Jacob mumbled out,

"Let's go then."

The cerulean-eyed boy smiled once more, before he looked at his boyfriend foolishly.

"Go where?" He asked almost dumbly, he was one who was too naive and pure for this world at first glance.

"To the beach. Let's go, just you and me." Jacob grinned cheekily, sliding out from underneath the small boy. He stood up, stretching slightly, his light-wash grey jacket riding up slightly. He cracked his fingers before holding his hands out for Troye, making the frail boy swoon inside. The charm inside his boyfriend's heart, always warming him in the best way possible. Troye leaped of the bed, Jacob's hand in his as the two walked over to his closet. The taller boy found Troye a heavy grey hoodie to slip on Troye's body.

\----

The beach was calm, the rain now just a barely there sprinkle, making small circles each time a drop hit the otherwise calm sea water. The sand was vacant, Troye and Jacob seeming to be the only ones on the beach. The sun had just began to set, the orange melting into the ocean like it was born to do so. The sky had turned grey from the rain, but throughout the breaks in the rain clouds there were streaks of pink and lilac, turning the rest of the world seemingly dull.

Walking alongside the beach, Troye was humming to himself slowly, a low sung lyric coming out of his mouth slowly. Jacob peered his head at the boy, smiling to himself as his boyfriend thought he hadn't heard him.

"Sing to me?" He asked slowly, giving Troye a heartfelt smile trying to convince him. The small boy covered his mouth with his hand, hiding his teeth as he smiled widely. Jacob swatted at his hand, before he kissed his first love's forehead. "Please?" He asked once more, cheering to himself when he knew he had convinced Troye. The small boy rolled his eyes, shushing him silently. He turned his back to the ocean, watching the tide roll up to the sand slowly, washing away any footprints left by the (barefoot) boys.

"Try to tune out the Sunday quiet. Thinking a drink will ease your mind," he started slowly, hoping he wasn't too pitchy. "The bloody mary tastes like what you gave away. The minute you lay your head to rest. And you start to feel it in your chest," he grinned slowly as he felt the strong arms of Jacob wrap around his waist. Jacob swayed their bodies together slowly, easing the weight of his almost malnourished boyfriend with grace.

Troye let his voice accelerate, skipping lyrics to his favorite parts of the song. "It's not easy to stay busy. Long days and late nights can't keep you off my mind. But are you feeling the same?" He looked up at his boyfriend, lolling his head back onto his shoulder, letting the stronger one move for the both of them. His voice began to fall soft, fading in and out as the cool breeze passed over the boys.

The sun had almost set all the way, the dark blue almost fading to black as the moon shone in the high sky, reflecting onto the water. The tide washed in slowly as the last of the lilac wiped away, leaving the stars high and bright in the sky. The two held onto each other as tight as you could while still being gentle, Troye turned around to face Jacob, their eyes meeting as fires crackled between them.

"I start to feel it in my chest, I'm having second thoughts, but I don't wanna talk." Jacob left a long kiss on Troye's cherry lips, chilled by the wind, warming the boy immediately.

"Cause I don't wanna know," Troye breathed out for the final time, finding his rightful place in Jacob's neck as he had his heart. The two stayed there for what seemed an eternity, the calm sound of waves crashing with one another, the wind rustling through the pine trees, passing the grainy sand their feet stood on. It was true, the two really were in love, holding onto one another like they were all the other could've ever needed. And in all honesty, they were. Tilting Troye's head back, Jacob placed another long kiss on his boyfriend's lips, falling in love all over again with the feeling of soft lips. Finding a home within one another was not something easily done, but nor was it something easily earned. 

 

"I could stay here forever with you," Troye whispered out.

"Then let's do just that."


	3. TECHNICOLOUR BEAT

It's three am and Troye can't sleep. It's fucking killing him, he can't get the words out of his head. Jacob needs to know, it's not a matter of Troye wanting him to, he needs to know. The words sit quietly on the tip of the boys tongue, the ones he was too afraid to speak before. The ones he's still afraid of, the ones he'll never tell to anyone but Jacob and the nice girl from the hotline.

His foot drums fastly, too fast to go unnoticed, his lover doesn't question it, only runs his fingers up and down Troye's back. He presses the softest of kisses to his lips, practically blowing the boy away.

Troye feels dirty, he feels like he's holding secrets that aren't meant to be kept but are too heavy to place in anyone's heart. And he knows, he really does, but he dosen't want to, he dosen't want to. He dosen't want to be that boy who occupies someone's mind for all the wrong reasons, he's the kind of boy who feels so uncomfortable talking about himself he'd rather take the bruises.

Troye's a mess really, he has unbrushed curls every Tuesday morning and untied laces when he leaves the movie theatre on summer nights. He falls asleep with his head burrowed into a pillow, rubbing his cheek into the soft silk that needed to be washed yesterday. He falls asleep to the sound of the fan clicking every time the the third spindle runs on it's fourth rotation. He's a series of numbers, 3's and 4's, Wednesday's and Thursday's. It's odd actually, his favorite number is two and the best day of the week to him is Tuesday.

He thinks blue is pretty and dosen't like orange. His favorite place to take naps is on the old leather couch he hasn't seen since the fifth grade but he'll never forget how soft it was. He's a mess of emotions and numbers and memories and hazel eyes and a boy with a pretty smile. And before he can stop himself the word vomit is back and he regrets it a millisecond too late.

"My mom hits me."

And Jacob is surprised, he really is. He'd always an inkling that something was wrong with his boy. He didn't know how bad it was and he didn't know how frequent it was either. The two sit in an uneasy silence, it's a shame really, two boys who love each-other more than rainy Tuesday afternoons and ice-cold filtered water that cost 1.25 a gallon on July 4th.

And it's sad because the silence isn't soft. It's not like the girl named Kate with pretty brown hair that watched anime when she should've been studying until five am. Here's the thing about her, she'd always been exceptionally kind to Jacob, even when he didn't deserve it. They all sat together at a lunch table, her smile and laugh always outshining everyone's while she had her head laid down in the lap of a soft boy who held her hand while she brushed her hand's soothingly along his arms.

It's not like the lovesick Friday mornings where it's sunny, (Troye hates the sun,) and Jacob is three minutes late to pick up the effervescent boy for one last day of school before spring break. It doesn't smell like Kate's spring laugh, (cocoa butter and lavender Pinesol.) It doesn't smell like sunny Friday mornings either, (the color purple and an old paperback book.)

(1947, fine print.)

It's hard like a piano played too harshly and a flute turned inside out trying to play a high F. It smells like a chunk of snow turned to slosh after being ran over by the oil semi. It's rough like bricks built with uneven stucco and cement poured four minutes too early. It's like an Elton John performance without the chords of Daniel or a bright smile from the man.

It's a mess, but not a pretty one. It doesn't look the graffiti alongside train cars as they chug up a hill. The words aren't twisted, they're raw, too raw for someone's ears who loves you, but he had to tell them. He had to. It isn't messy like the day in tenth grade where Troye found himself tangled in-between the sheets of Jacob Bixenman, the feeling of his soft skin as he was granted Troye's innocence. That day was a mess, a sweaty mess of tangled hair and ruffled sheets. It was quick and it didn't last long but that didn't matter to them, it was a pretty mess.

This is an entirely different mess, one that could leave both of them broken. One that Troye was afraid to admit to because he's so embarrassed. Troye is fine, he's fine, he's okay. He always is. This mess wasn't something as simple as uneven snow-angels, they couldn't just cover it up and start over as if nothing happened. It was a mess and Jacob hate's messes because he's a clean freak who washes his hand's all the time. But that isn't relevant at the given moment because he's dating a mess and he loves him to pieces and will pick up any piles left behind. Because that's what you do, you love someone for all of them, mess and all.

Their love is incoherent to anyone else watching, how could you fall in love with someone so quickly? The words are so hard for some to even mumble quietly, but it just happened. They didn't mean for it to happen but it did and there's no going back now because it's impossible to erase the past. No one believed them, no one really. Maybe some started starting believing them when the three am panic attacks came and all they did was ask for the other person. Some people believed them and some didn't. The anger sparked from within was great, their love was not on the table for anyone to discuss. It just wasn't.

"She can't help it though," the blue-eyed boy mumbled quietly, fearing that even if his voice was too loud the mirror would finish cracking and everything would shatter. (An even bigger mess.)

"How so?" Jacob whispered back, running his fingers nonchalantly through the boys soft curls. (They were a little damp though, the boys previously were showering together. They'd gotten better since the tenth grade mess.)

Troye's scared. He doesn't want to answer because he's afraid Jacob will leave him out of fear of him being like his Mother. He doesn't know if he'd be able to handle losing him. It's a risk, he knows it so bad and he's afraid of it too. But risks are always taken, it was like the risk Jacob took when he called the fragile one babyboy. It's like the risk he took when he ditched school just to feed a sick Jacob soup instead.

Jacob hates being sick so much, it scares the seemingly fearless boy so much. Troye on the other-hand was well with illness and loved being able to take care of the more dominate one, he took pride in making sure his boyfriend was okay. Jacob had eaten the soup wearily as Troye laid a lukewarm washcloth on his forehead. He was okay, Jacob was okay.

So this was another risk, and sometimes they had to be taken.

"She's, well she's, she is.." the words are hard to form, they rest on his tongue uneasily and were hard to say, "she's kinda crazy."

And it hits Jacob like a freight train against fifty mile per hour winds, it really does. Troye takes in a deep breath, waiting for Jacob to pick up and leave him behind. Why wouldn't he? It would be so easy and it would be so much easier, but he dosen't at all. He just runs his fingers through Troye's curls and kisses his forehead.

"I love you."

And the two don't talk about it again, because they're okay. Jacob makes Troye safe. They're safe.

The risk didn't hurt them.


	4. DRIVE

Troye fell back against the wall, his skinny body not making any sort of noise against the stucco wall. He brought his fingertips up to his ears, pulling them down slightly, trying to block out the sound of Jacob's angry voice. The blue eyed boy never liked yelling, not after the life he had led. Jacob was never one to yell, today was somehow rather different. He'd gone out for a party with his teammates, celebrating a victory against another small town team. The hazel eyed perpetrator had one too many drinks and not enough patience for the younger boy he called angel.

Troye woke up feverishly from a nightmare that took place during his nap, he had dreamt once of again of hell. It was a simple recurring dream honestly, but for Troye it scared him into oblivion. The boy often dreamt of this, it started out simply at his father's funeral, he watched as they threw dirt over the damp grave, wet from the morning dew. His subconscious unfortunately took a turn for the worse as the cemetery around him warped into something much more unknown. To say it was any more evil was a bit of a sin, really what was worse? The place where people say their last goodbyes or the place where bad people went after. The boy often found himself wondering how many times he would return to his fathers grave, cherishing each time as his last. The ground he stood on while observing the gravestone, (a simple grey one, carved into the polished marble rock 'Shaun Mellet, Father, Husband, Friend.') He remembers the last thoughts while leaving for the first time, looking at the lake which was just onn the other side of the graveyard, he wondered if people swam in it during the summer.

Troye yearned for Jacob's touch, his calloused fingers from years of basketball training against his lotioned theatre hands. His eyes watered once again as he looked over at the time, 1:27 pm. He and Jacob were supposed to go out today at 1:00, but it was now 27 minutes later and Jacob has always had the same philosophy, 'if I care I'll be there 5 minutes early.'

He'd always been 5 minutes early, sometimes even 10 with a bouquet of dandelions picked from his Mom's flower shop. Troye looked solemnly down at his fingernails, picking at the light baby-blue nail-polish adorned with tiny yellow flowers he'd painted on last Wednesday as a toast to himself for getting a 87% on his AP US History exam.

Troye was hard to explain, once you thought you knew anything about him everything became twisted around, squares into pyramids and golds into coppers. He was valuable, delicate, and a bit worth the hassle if you really gave the sublime boy a chance. He was important, he was also forgotten. Just like tulips in Holland, they used to be more valuable than gold.

His fingers had touched many things; the cold metal fence that Jacob pressed kisses into his forehead between the cracks at his football games. Rainfall from his brother's eyes on the day of his father's untimely death.

(3 am, he shared a pillow with the brother who lost his mind after his lost his father.)

The day old fallen water that pooled up on the rims of the mailbox outside of his house. The sangfroid that dripped from his nose during the fifth grade year of bloody-noses. The surface of the aluminum lighter that reflected in the sun that his hazel-eyed lover used to light cigarettes.

But maybe the most impactful thing Troye ever laid his soft painted fingertips were Jacob's own. The feeling of his fingers intertwined with the one who had grasped his heart in the matter of a cheek kiss laying on red-tiles when they were 13, or maybe it was when they watched some shitty SyFy movie instead of going to school last year on April 17th to celebrate Jacob's victory of successfully reciting a monologue in front of fifteen students. But maybe it was last month when the two slow danced on antique carpets while listening to Bon Iver. Or maybe it was yesterday morning when Jacob kissed his cheek before leaving early for the game. It could've been last night when Jacob screamed at Troye for needing help.

(His mom had hit him and he showed up at the party unannounced, he decided maybe he should just take more hits next time.) 

It was all in the past, the present, and the future. Troye loves Jacob.

Troye is soft, he is pliable, you can poke him and eventually he will rise back up. You can tease, poke, and prod. But he is not malleable.

(mal·le·a·ble  
ˈmalyəb(ə)l/  
adjective  
(of a metal or other material) able to be hammered or pressed permanently out of shape without breaking or cracking.)

And once he is hit, oh my, once he is hit Troye will break. His skin is like fiber glass, strong, seemingly sturdy, but you can hit it hard enough and I assure you it will break. And the little tiny shards, they will prick under your skin and turn your fingers into splinters that you may never get out. And it's a domino effect, piece by piece, shard by shard. The glass will eat you alive. All simply because it was broken.

Breaking, breaking, breaking, break, broke.

And oh God, it fucking stings.

But this time, Jacob isn't here to help pick out the pieces. He isn't there to help Troye, instead he's stuck in bed feeling sorry for himself, hungover and sweaty. His curls are stuck to his forehead with the grime and musty memories of last night. He gripped his head slowly, flashes of his (to-date) worst regret ever.

It's worse than the day he dared Troye to kiss Tyler Oakley in front of the soccer team, he remembers pooling in fifteen dollars from bets that 11 year old baby, poor angel Troye didn't know it was in mal intent.

It's even worse than the day he broke up with Troye to be with a girl called Bianca for a week, she was slender, beautiful platinum locks that fell to her shoulders, her eyes catching the attention of everyone in the room. The gray stunning people of all backgrounds silent, capturing what Troye thought it meant to be beautiful.

And honestly, Troye still skipped meals sometimes. Pushing himself to achieve those feminine curves he believed Jacob seeked, it started off slow, maybe from adding more salad to completely wiping everything else. He wasn't doing it on purpose no, he just wanted his boyfriend to love him all the way.

Whatever it took.

And it's stupid really that Jacob has hurt his boy so much, it doesn't make sense. Troye gave him everything, asking for nothing but soft kisses to his lips and the feeling of safety to touch his fingertips. So yeah, Jacob has screwed up. But never this bad before.

And Troye is crying while Jacob's head is pounding after last night.

"Can you tell me where I can find Jacob,"

"Troye? What the hell are you doing here?"

One sip, two sip, three sip, four sip.

"My side, Jake it hurts really bad. I didn't know what to do, can you please help me?"

Five sip, six sip.

Seven Budweiser 16 ouncers down.

"Jacob, what the fuck? Can't he ever leave you alone."

Popped lid, one huge guzzle.

Eight Budweiser 16 ouncers down.

"You're right, Troye can you just take care of yourself? For fucking once? Just because you're a year younger doesn't mean you need so much help. Stop being a bitch and just hide from your Mom, she's 5'2, she can't hit that hard. Suck it up, leave me alone. I'm celebrating tonight."

That's all it took, eight beers, 42 sips, and a smasher. All it took to break Troye's heart, slurred words messily strung along. And hell, Troye fucking hates himself.

\---

The next morning isn't any better, it's a Monday. Troye doesn't mind them, they aren't bad like the second Thursday of the month, one more week till payday. Sure, they aren't Tuesday's either, his favorite day of the week. If it's a Tuesday it's a good day. Tuesday's are fresh paint in a renovated basement, lucky penny's laying on the ground in front of classroom 894, (AP English, AP English.) But this morning, Troye's mother is on an escapade.

He sits on the couch quietly, watching his dark-haired mother lose her mind. Well, she's already lost it but now it is evident, given it's 7:47 am and Troye has school in thirteen minutes but instead he watches his Mom throw clothes out from the antique dresser drawer instead. The clothes start to hit to floor, she's looking for something. Was it a twenty-dollar bill? He can't quite remember even though he is sitting right there.

White hot tears are streaming down his Mother's face, she's screaming on a blind rampage. "Troye you're no fucking help." She pulls out the dresser drawer quickly, it's empty, except for a few lose nickels and half-filled tubes of 99 cent lipgloss. The weightless drawer swings, hitting Troye's dog in the face, causing him to yelp and whimper. "Shut that stupid dog up before I throw it out." Troye runs up, pulling his dog behind him, locking him in the bathroom so he wouldn't be hurt.

The blue-eyed boy turned around, tearing up at the sight of the ground. All of the drawers are pulled out now, strewn across the ground, clothes, papers, gum-wrappers, old cds. Everywhere, across the pretty red tile. Oh the pretty red tile, the same tile Jacob held Troye on and the same tile where they made out. It always came back to him.

And it fucking sucks, because right now Troye is scrambling to find a missing twenty dollars, and his hazel eyed boyfriend (please) was all that was on his mind. He yearned for his soft touch, he wanted safety. Safety, safe.

safe  
sāf/  
adjective  
1.  
protected from or not exposed to danger or risk; not likely to be harmed or lost.

safe·ty  
ˈsāftē/  
noun  
1.  
the condition of being protected from or unlikely to cause danger, risk, or injury.

Troye gazes at his Mom slowly, her eyes a haze of crazy. She's screaming little nothing's that  
pierce the angel of a boy's heart, "your fucking fault Troye," and before he knows it his eyes are bleeding rivers of water that shouldn't have to flood his sight but it does. His breathing is eradicated, heaving everywhere in between, his Mom has somehow found a pack and a lit cigarette sits in between her pale lips. "Little fucking brat, I bet you stole my money Troye."

He shook his head no, breathless, no words being able to pour from his mouth. The smoke hit's his sunlight dusted cheeks, he coughs a bit before his Mom (Mum,) rolls her eyes. He watches her from a distance, taking a step back as he observes the mental health issue  
gleaming in her eye.

Troye's fucking terrified, but it's for all the wrong reasons.

He doesn't want to be crazy.

It's vapid, Troye know's he isn't. Sure, mental health can be hereditary, but the only thing accustomed to him is anxiety and a slight round of insomnia. He dosen't even know what to label his own Mother, manic? It's hard to explain, but she's not okay.

He worries Jacob is going to pick up and leave, because he knows it would be so easy, it isn't a hard concept to process. Leave the broken boy before he breaks you too. He dosen't want him to though, he wants his boy forever, and it's selfish really. He can't grasp the idea of being able to handle Jacob loving another person the way Jacob loves him.

Love is lovely.

love·ly  
ˈləvlē/  
adjective  
1.  
exquisitely beautiful.

Love is simple, love is complex, love is tangible.

tan·gi·ble  
ˈtanjəb(ə)l/  
adjective  
1.  
perceptible by touch.

And he holds it in his hands while mini-golfing with Jacob during the summer of 2014. It rests gently in the palm of his hand when the older boy teaches Troye how to sew, (domestic, very domestic.) It sits in the base of his eardrum on the nights he'd a cold, resting his head on Jacob's tummy while his hair was pet softly to sleep while the hazel-eyed chess-lover played his favorite jazz record (Flora Purim, Butter Dreams.) It lays in the cold space that resides in Troye's mind when he feels he's too much.

He's doing everything he can to keep it from slipping between his fingers.

But, Troye swears to God he's already dropped it.

Thoughts vanish as soon as Troye hears the crack, the antique mirror has fallen and he feels like crying. He approaches his dazed-eyed Mom slowly, she's ripping through the closet now, the old mirror is facedown. He lifts it slowly, he finds the once pristine glass cracked jaggedly. Resting the broken mirror against the wall, Troye looks at the pieces of glass scattered across the red tiles, the broken curve of a wood piece flung onto a pillow, clothes piled on top of old file boxes filled with taxes and his Father's death-certificate. And finally, the mirror. Shattered.

\---

Troye finds himself trudging three minutes late into third period, PE. He shares this class with the half the football team (Jacob included,) two english honors kids, four track runners, a fashion expert, a poet, and two clarinet players. By the time he reaches his locker, (a red locker, #216, with a yellow flower sticker in the bottom left corner) most of the other boy's had already changed. He winced as he lifted his angular arms, brushing his bruised ribcage against the polyester shirt he wore.

He pulls the gym clothes out, walking sock-clad into a changing stall for the insecure boys. Slowly, he grazed his shirt above his head, pulling it through with his right arm. He slipped out of his black jeans, blushing at the blue woman's underwear he was wearing. Soft, cotton, comfy. He rolls his eyes, opting to take the extra lap around the court when he hears Coach and the rest of the boy's filtering out for today's class.

He's startled however when the fabric curtain was ripped open, he was quick to cover himself but relaxed when it was just Jacob. He stood there for a second before stepping into the little room, shutting the flimsy curtain behind them. His fast softens as Troye squirms uncomfortably before bursting into tears. He acts quickly, scrambling to pick up the small boy. Troye cries into his shoulder, the older one of the two rocks them back and forth.

"I'm so sorry, Jakey please don't go, don't leave me. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be too much don't leave, don't leave."

too  
to͞o/  
adverb  
1.  
to a higher degree than is desirable, permissible, or possible; excessively.

much  
məCH/  
determiner & pronoun  
1.  
a large amount.

"Hey, hey angel breathe for me yeah? You are not too much, I was an asshole last night. I don't understand what happened and I'm so sorry, I am the one who needs to be sorry not you okay? I will always take care of you, last night? If it ever happens again, leave me. I love you more than life, I regret it, I-I am so sorry angel, fuck I love you so much. You are  
not too much, you are enough, you are just enough for me."

e·nough  
iˈnəf/  
determiner & pronoun  
1.  
as much or as many as required.

"I love you too." And that's all Troye needs to say, because he knows it won't happen again. Because, he isn't scared anymore, Jacob loves him forever. Jacob loves him forever. (And a little bit more.)

Love should be that easy too, forgiving, caring, understanding, regretting, touching, kissing. Long walks on the beach and yellow socks on rainy days, raspberries with whipped cream, scrambled eggs with a dollop too much of butter, metal fans that whir in the night. It's bubblegum tasting medicine, compulsive hand-washing, Meyer's cleaning solution on aged blue dressers that were once maroon. Shopping bags from thrift stores filled with secret skirts for Troye.

It's moments like right now where Troye is clad in only sky-blue cotton underwear, sitting on Jacob's hip as he rocks them back and forth in the boy's highschool locker-room, Troye sucking on his knuckles like a baby. Jacob can see it in his eyes, the younger one hadn't slept correctly the night before. The blue-eyed boy lolled his head on his boyfriend's shoulder, he knew the two would address the bruises sitting on his ribcage soon.

"My sleepy little boy huh?" Jacob cooed, setting his boy gently down on his feet. He put his red jacket on Troye's body, zipping it up as it fell to mid-thigh of the younger boy's milky- white legs. He cradled the tired boy to his chest, picking up his clothes that were discarded on the tile. He stopped by his locker as well, grabbing the word backpack before laying it across Troye's lap so he wasn't exposed.

He jogged with the boy to his car, setting the his tiny body in the passengers seat, shutting the door softly. He started the engine, pressing one last kiss onto Troye's smooth forehead,  
his nose being tingled by a chocolate brown curl.

"Before you sleep baby," He handed Troye a bouquet of flowers, pressing them against the boy's nose before putting them back into the stain glassed vase sitting on the floor of the backseat. "Sorry I was late." The blue-eyed boy  
giggled, covering his mouth with yellow painted fingertips.

They both know they're okay, they will reach Jacob's home and he will sit Troye on the bathroom sink while he dabs ointment onto his broken skin. There will be tears, kisses, lotion-spills, too big gray t-shirts, chess pieces, pins and needles. They will cuddle until Troye falls asleep first (always, he thinks it's annoying, Jacob finds it endearing.) And they are okay.

But, Troye is still sorry for being too much and he always will be.

(Not malleable.)


	5. LOSE IT

Troye thinks alot. That's easy to figure out, simple, user-friendly, painless. The real challenge is to figure out what he is thinking, it's complex, python-coded, painful. Once you think you have the boy figured out, (I have mentioned this before, but it's important, vital) you are quick to find you don't know a thing.

He reminisces on the past; achievements, tears, presents, kissing, and oh God, the mistakes.

He's scared.

synonyms: frightened, afraid, fearful, startled, nervous, panicky, alarmed, intimidated; terrified, petrified, terrorized, horrified, unnerved, panic-stricken/-struck, terror-stricken/-struck, horror-stricken/-struck, with one's heart in one's mouth, scared stiff, scared/frightened out of one's wits, scared witless, scared/frightened to death, chilled to the bone/marrow, in a cold sweat; informal spooked, vulgar slang; scared shitless.

("I've never been so scared in all my life")

He's so in love he cannot comprehend the simple fact that one day he might lose the one he loves most. The fear bubbles from within, trickling into his mind on Friday mornings at 12:34 am, dripping slowly into (and out of,) his eyes on Monday mornings when he waits for Jacob to pick him up. He cries himself to sleep at night, stuffing his chubby cheeks still covered with peach fuzz because hell, he yearns for Jacob's touch.

He enjoys his alone-time, relishing in the chords of Frances and letting himself fall apart over the commercials of homeless animals. Spreading his toes as he paints them a mint-blue, the color so soft it seemingly blends in with his creamy skin. Shaking his butt by himself as he glides across the red-tiles in vintage knee-socks he found at the Savers on seventh street. He wish people got it, he craves the feeling of complete serenity within himself.

Because he knows soon after he'll go right back to being terrified.

His mind often drifts to his Father, his laugh, the eyes, the death, and fuck, the funeral too.

Shaun Mellet, absolutely Troye's favorite person. He looks back on the times now and it sears into his heart, he wishes he could've said 'I love you' one more time. He covets for ten more measly minutes sitting in his lap, he remembers it like yesterday's pair of socks, (burgundy, a little past the ankles, they fell down to his heel.) He can still taste the fizz of Mountain Dew sitting on his tongue from his Dad's big 52oz-guzzler cup from Quick Trip. The polyester fabric of the blue uniform he wore to work everyday, right above his heart reading, Shaun Mellet, Paramedic.

It's ironic too, he spent his whole life working with people who became a second family to save other people's lives. The ultramarine-eyed boy has polaroids of himself sitting in the ambulance, smiling widely in a giant gray t-shirt with a stethoscope hanging wildly from his neck. The station had become a second home to him, his Dad just happening to be his first. (Jacob came after.) It was a fucking paradox, one day he was at work and then a week later his work-mates weren picking him up dead in his house.

i·ron·ic  
īˈränik/  
adjective  
using or characterized by irony.

So that's when Troye decides maybe luck isn't for him, because what's he supposed to do now? In what world should a nine-year-old wish death upon himself rather than his own Father. No more familiar sounds of Nickelback, the rock chords won't ever sound the same.

The blue-eyed boy can't even go into an automobile shop anymore, all he can think about is running up the aisles helping his Dad find the right equipment for his engine, he can't stand the smell of oil and metal now, he doesn't like gas-stations but he'll never tell you that's the reason.

Troye curls often in the rocking-chair, running his hands up and down the soft fabric. Soberly reminding himself of his Father, the afternoons spent on his lap watching some Nascar show while drinking too sweet cola. Nights curled into his sides while the rest of the family sat on the black leather couch watching Glee.

Troye loved sleeping in the same bed with his Dad, he always slept on the left. Every night by 10:45 they were both in bed, sleeping till their hearts content (6:30 am for Troye to wake up for school, 4:45 am for Shaun to leave for work by 5:15.) But as soon as his Father passed on,  
Troye found comfort on his side of the bed. Every night falling asleep into the familiar   
baby-blue heated pillow. And even now, in his small twin bed, Troye still sleeps to the right.

Troye has since decided he hates the color of caramel and it's for a reason that may be a bit too dark, but it's honest. He hates the milky golden-brown because of something so simple it might tear anyone apart, when he saw his Father's face as he laid in the casket, he hated to color of his lips. Shaun's lips were once filled with bright laughter, cheeky smiles, loud cheers as Troye placed first in his fourth swimming competition in the 2nd grade, but now? Nothing. They were no longer a red, covered in the original Chapstick flavor. (Every time Troye goes to the store his fingers find the black bottle with white writing before he makes  
himself rip his hands away.)

They had turned colorless; an ugly brown, lifeless, final, color and chapped at the tops. Troye wanted nothing more than to fucking rip open a brand new tube of original Chapstick and spread it over his Father's lips, because damn, he hoped maybe it would bring him  
back.

So yeah, Troye hates the color of caramel.

The blue-eyed boy had to tear his eyes away violently from his Father's face,(thelipsthelips.) Forcing himself to find anything that looked the same, even in relativity. Searching everywhere his eyes landed on his hands. They were still rough and calloused from years of life-saving labor, red and swollen at the knuckles. They looked so alive, so full of life, like his heart was still beating, like he was still there. So, Troye being the optimist he is reached out for his hands, slowly placing his fingers on top of his Father's knuckles, and oh.

They were cold.

That's when Troye recognized the tears falling down his face, a choked sob leaves his lips and that's when he decides maybe it's time to walk away. So he turns around soberly, avoiding any eye contact possible, sitting quietly in his seat whole he plays with his fingers.

He hopes it's over soon.

The rest of the funeral is a blur, he watches his Mom slip in a last pack of cigarettes for his Father. His Uncle gives him a sad smile and whatever's left of Troye's heart breaks when he watches someone grieve for their older brother taken too soon.

And that night when he got home, Troye settled his body into the right side of the bed, cuddling into the baby-blue heating pad. He covers his hands completely with the sheets, trying desperately to forget his cold fingers. He never wants to feel that cold again. Maybe he fell asleep that night, maybe he cried, but I don't know because I can't remember.


	6. LANDSLIDE

Grieving isn't a process that's completed overnight, it isn't a process Troye has not ever been able to put into words. He calls bull in health class, when his middle-aged teacher brings up the grieving process, serving it along with the words, 'I know this is how I would feel if I ever lost a parent.' Troye is infuriated, he's angrier than he was when he found out Christmas fell on a Thursday last year. On his wooden desk sits a packet, filled with meaningless words to others and death sentences to Troye.

'The five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the one we lost.'

His eyes reach the back of his head, his mind turning to Jacob's hand rubbing his thigh unconsciously as he puts pen to paper. His hands are shaking erratically, the purple gel-pen falls to the ground as quick as Troye is on his feet and running out the too small, too close-minded, too much room.

It's just too much.

Jacob of course followed him, he finds Troye with red-rimmed eyes and his fists rubbing into his thighs while he sits on the seat of the bathroom. Wordlessly, Jacob picks Troye up and lets his small body cradle in his lap.

They don't say anything because what the hell is there to be said? Troye's grieving over his taken-too-soon father's death. It's a stomach churning noise, the only thing audible is skipping of freshman students in the hallway.

Jacob hates it and it makes him want to puke, but he knows this is what Troye needs. He understands completely; sometimes noise is too frustrating, too annoying, too loud, too splitting, too apologetic, too mean, too kind.

Sometimes, just too much.

***

Her name was Penelope VonRadics. Troye met her on his first day of group therapy; she was only 8 years old, he was 9. They were all sitting on red plastic chairs with cool metal buttons pressing into their backs. Troye is determined to not speak, a single word will not leave his chapped lips, this group won't get a single whimper, a lip wobble, or even a damn tear. It just won't, because Troye knows his third-grade self more than any people here. He knows exactly what they're going to say, 'I am so sorry for your loss' 'He's in a better place now.' Nothing he wants to hear, and certainly nothing he hasn't heard before.

But, that's not what happens. The volunteer group leader stands up, she raises her hand to get the children quiet. Which, honestly, Troye finds really ironic, none of the kids are making noise, but why would they? They're at a grief counseling group, their parents are all in one for their own age, their older siblings' are sitting two rooms down, going through the same thing. There's nothing to talk about, and Troye decides there won't ever be.

"Alright, hey guys My name is Lynn and I'm your group volunteer for the day. So, basically what we're doing today is, we're going to say your name and share who you lost, and how. But, you can always just pass if you want, it's okay if you want to pass. No shame here." Speaks a girl with thick, straight black hair that's pinned up with silver clips. She returns to her seat, right in the middle of Troye and another boy, smiling gently she begins to speak again.

"So, when I was your guys' age, my sister died. Her name was Rebecca, and she got in a car accident." There's little claps coming from the children who'd been here before, 'Thank you for sharing' s' are muttered through the room. She smiles gently, before turning her head, she gives the other boy next to her a nudge with her shoulder, "Your turn love." He gives her a sarcastic smile, before clearing his throat and resting his hands over his lime-green shorts.

"Hi, uh my name Jon and my Mom died last year, she had a stroke." He deadpans, shrugging his shoulders before looking down and making his feet patter against the ground. Troye knows exactly what he's doing; Jon is trying to pretend he isn't hurting, trying to convince everyone around him that he's okay, when he can't even prove that to himself. Troye knows, because he does the exact same thing.

That's terrible isn't it? Here they are, a group of kids who should be at home sitting around the dinner table, praying with their parents and sibling hands intertwined with their own. They should be outside, bouncing on the trampoline their Grandparents set up for them because they visit every Thursday. They should be painting their nails, fighting over which color is better, blue or yellow? They should be falling asleep on jersey fabric sheets, nuzzling into pink pillow cases and flannel blankets. They should be happy, should be safe, and should be able to go to bed not knowing such a tragedy at such a young age. Because, trust me, there is not one thing beautiful about it. Not a single thing.

The last one is what rattles Troye; the girl sitting next to him. Her hair is up in tiny little buns, one on each side of the perfect middle part, her baby hairs are slicked down to her brown skin. There's a little space between her two front teeth. Her brown eyes shine in the yellow light, she's got rosy cheeks and full lips. Her noise is pointed and her eyes are glassy, distant, maybe.

"M'name is Penelope, but people usually just call me Penny. I'm here because coupla months ago I was outside with my Dad and our dog. I was jumpin' rope and I heard this really, really loud noise. I turned around and my Dad, he shot my dog! I started crying, because he turned the gun around to himself and, and h-he shot himself."

(And, Fuck. Troye looks back on that day all the time, he always wonders what happened to the girl and Jacob is always right there to say, 'She's okay.' 'You think?' 'I know.')

It's a bit too much for him to comprehend, the girl had to have understood the magnitude of what she saw, it's going to be something she'll never be able to forget. He's so angry, Troye is 110% livid that her father made his own daughter watch that. But he feels guilty too, it isn't her dad's fault he was sad and couldn't handle it, Troye just knows it's going to eat her up for the rest of her life. It's something that she'll take to the grave, something her dad did too. (He didn't have to wait for it, though.)

He guesses his mind went blank, he missed the 'Thank you for sharing's' and claps, he hears Lynn call his name before his face shoots up to meet her gaze.

"It's your turn."

"Pass." Is all Troye says.

***

Troye is sitting naked on the floor of his bedroom, it's pouring outside and he has his window open so the gusts of misty winds are keeping his red tile cool. He's pulled out an army green trunk from underneath his bed, it's tattered, and extremely heavy. Little does his Mom know, Troye snuck it from her room to his and let it sit in the far corner under his lofted bed. His heels are pressed to his bottom, and he's sifting through the contents of the trunk. It's filled with old papers, pictures, scrapbooks and shots from sixty years ago.

He's thumbing over a certain picture; It's matte, not glossed and his Dad happens to be 14 years old in it. He's smiling wide, it was back when his family used to live on the lake upstate. You can see the water shimmering in the back, its blue, brilliant and bubbling. There's a group of kids standing on the boardwalk, squirming while they're preparing to jump. But, in the foreground there's a group of bike riders, and his Dad happens to be one. He's wearing a yellow stripped shirt, blue athlete shorts that rise up to his thigh while he's peddling. Mid snapshot, there's a giant smile on his face, and his velvet sneakers are on the pedals. The back of the matte polaroid reads, 'Shaun, 1962.' Written in the curly handwriting of Troye's Grandmother, (the same one who outlived her youngest son.)

He places the photo back into the trunk, locking it up before using all the strength he can muster to push it underneath his bed. He hears a knock on the locked door, but rolls his eyes hoping it's not his mother, because that means he'll have to wear clothes.

"Who is it?" He calls softly, clearing his throat by the end of his words.

"Just me love," comes the reply from his one and only Jacob Taylor. Troye giddily skips to the door, undoing the chain lock before turning the cool metal handle to let his boyfriend in. His blue eyes light up when the doorway is open and Jacob walks in, Troye practically throws himself onto Jacob, burying his face into the crook of hazel eye's neck and kissing the skin tenderly, softly, and safely. Jacob throws his head back and laughs, Troye has wrapped his legs around Jacob's waist.

"Baby, your skin is absolutely freezing." Jacob says, setting the angel of a boy down before pressing his lips against his forehead.

"The rain feels nice on m'skin though," Troye says, pouting. Jacob only scolds him lightly, giving him a quick pat on his bare bottom.

"Yeah, but so does not being sick. Here, we can cuddle under your blankets okay?" Troye only nods in response to Jacob, before skipping to his bed and pulling the handmade quilt from the rocking chair. He wraps himself underneath it, waiting for Jacob to take off his shoes and join him under the sheets. Troye pouts more when Jacob shuts the window, he really loves the rain, but, Troye knows Jacob is right. He can't get sick because of it. (Even though, he totally, 110% would if he could.)

Jacob cuddles into Troye, making the younger boy sigh into his chest before he sits up again.

"What's up baby?"

"Can you take off your clothes? I wanna feel your skin." Troye asks gently, peering his blues up to meet Jacob.

Jacob strips himself down to nothing before climbing right next to Troye, and he feels so happy, so on top of the world, so 'I never want to leave you.' Troye plants a kiss to Jacob's bare chest before burying his head into Jacob's warm skin.

"Love you." He whispers.

"I know baby, I love you too."

It's a beautiful thing really, being able to belong to each other and feel so safe. Sure, they're naked, and sure no one else seems to be home, and sure the rain would clear any noise anyway. But, that's just not the case with them; It's not precisely sexual, it's certainly not uncomfortable. It's an undefinable, not-understand, you-can't-even-comprehend, overwhelming, feeling, no, no, definition of safety.

(And Fuck, God, it feels so good. If you asked either of them what home felt like this is exactly what they would tell you.

home  
hōm/  
noun  
1\. Troye Mellet  
2\. Jacob Bixenman )


	7. WHITEBLOOD

When Troye thinks of Jacob he thinks of purple; a deep, rich, creamy, velvet purple. Purple because it stands out, it looks pretty with his hazel-eyes, and is quite to the contrast to Troye's baby, baby yellow. Right now Troye is slipping on a pair of burnt orange socks that make his feet feel warm and grabs his navy blue messenger bag pulling it over his shoulder. He looks into the mirror one last time, smiling softly at his rather shy apperance. He's off to Jacob's football game, it's the championships so he knows there is going to be a lot of people there, more specifically a lot of people looking at Jacob.

Troye tries not to be green with envy, he is just so hyper aware of how damn beautiful his boyfriend is, of course he's going to be worried someone is going to take him away. Of course he is. The small boy is absolutely convinced he's nothing special, no matter how much Jacob pleads otherwise. Troye knows how fucked he is for hazel-eyes, especially when he first wakes up in the morning, when he stretches his arms showing off his v-line that dips into his baggy sweatpants. On Tuesday's when Troye is sitting on the kitchen counter lips attached to Jacob and he's breathing in his scent, his mind is always so fuzzy, all he can think is JacobJacobJacob! Or in class, when Jacob has a pen behind his ear and he's literally just breathing, Troye is so so fucked. He doesn't even mind though, so.

Troye dips his fingers into a pot of blue glitter, painting the number #13 on his clear cheek. Ruffling his curls, curling his toes once more before he dashes out of his room. He practically skids across the red-tile, running out front to be greeted with Al waiting in his car. Al stands proud against the green truck, Troye can't help but let his heart swell at the sight of how much growing up his beautiful best friend has done. Al is dressed in a red sweater, wearing tight black ripped jeans while his strawberry blond curls flop over his eyes.

"Hey, you ready?" He asks as he walks around to the drivers seat while Troye settles down in the cracked leather seat.

"Mhm, thanks for the ride."

"Shut up, don't thank me."

Troye rolls his eyes before Al reaches for the stereo, playing out Harry Styles. Troye shrieks, the two begin to sing along, laughing with loudly. It has been hard for these two, Troye knows Al doesn't understand how much he deserves, how life totally screwed him over, and how he deserved so much better than what he got, he always has deserved so much better. The other night Al had called crying that he would be moving away soon, about how much he was going to miss Troye. That was the point in life where Troye finally was able to understand, sometimes heartbreak isn't from losing a lover, but from losing a part of him. That's when he finally understood, you don't have to physically engage in tangible love to grieve someone, hell, that person doesn't even have to be dead.

The point is Al has always been a part of Troye, just like Jacob was, his Mum, his Dad, anyone important to him. Troye remembers the night he met Al, how much it meant to meet someone like him. He's done a great deal of crying, laughing, singing, crying, and growing up with his best friend. Knowing he won't be able to have Al forever is what hurts most he decides, because sometimes bad things happen, but the good will come, it always does. Troye and Al continue to sing, giggling with each other while they throw their hands up in the air at red lights. Neither Troye nor Al know how much they are going to miss this.

***

Walking into the busy school field is always something Troye has despised, especially with a whole other school in attendance. The game started fourty-two seconds after Troye took his seat on the cool bench, he didn't hesitate to open his messages before sending Jacob a text.

troye: you look good in your uniform jsjsjs

Troye sighed, pocketing his phone because he knew Jacob's was left in the locker room. A group of teenagers from the other school walked up the bleachers, filling the row up behind him. Troye kept his eyes on the game, cheering when Jacob made a long pass. Concentrating on the task in front of him, Troye quipped his breath when his shoulder was tapped from behind. He turned around slowly, muttering a little hello before a girl with hot-pink hair said something loudly.

"#13, he's cute huh?" She asked while chewing loudly on a straw stuck between his lips, while the group of kids surrounding her agreed.

"Yeah, he's cute." Troye said, turning his heel before the girl spoke out again- this time a bit rudely.

"So, you're gay?"

"Well I would hope, Jacob is my boyfriend."

"Whose Jacob?"

"He's number 13."

The girl's eyes widened before she rolled them, flipping around to face her friends while they began whispering. Troye refocused on the game, smiling widely as he watched his love play his heart out, Troye knew how happy playing made Jacob, it always seemed to put him in a better mood. Troye of course, wanted nothing but the best for the wondrous boy. So with stride, he turned up to every game the boy ever had, always bringing Jacob a snack in his bag to feed him during halftime, along with the promise of dinner and kisses after the game was over. Troye cheered once more when Jacob threw his hands in the air, jumping up and down as his team scored their fifth touchdown before the halftime bell ringed.

Trotting down the metal stairs as raindrops started to sprinkle down, Troye practically skipped over to the fence separating the field and general crowd. He stood at the fence, watching Jacob tilt his head back dreamily as he drank water from the team bottles, swallowing deeply before he let his eyes down to find Troye. The blue-eyed boy made a little wave at the boy, to which Jacob smiled at as he jogged over to the fence. Troye covered his face with his hands before Jacob poked at them through the wet fence.

"Hey angel," He said in a warm voice, before Troye leaned his head against the chainlink face letting Jacob press a soft kiss to his forehead through the metal.

"Hi, I brought you some snacks." Troye said cheerily, before reaching down into his messenger bag and pulling out some gummies, a bag of grapes, and a mini energy drink. Jacob tries to grab them through the fence, to which Troye rejects as soon as he saw the same group of kids from the bleachers staring at them.

"Hey, can you come around the fence?" He asks slyly, running his fingers through his curls. Jacob nods, running over to the fence entrance and rearing towards Troye. The smaller boy takes a handful of grapes into his palm before picking them up one by one and feeding Jacob. Troye feels eyes burning into his back, placing the food back into his bag before bringing Jacob's face close to his.

"You're mine," he growls, locking lips with his boyfriend, peppering them with everything his cherry lips have to offer. Jacob's lips taste like sweat and dreams, dripping with the promise of a better tomorrow. Attacking his full lips, Jacob slips his tongue into Troye's mouth, licking it over Troye's own, grazing the tops of his teeth. Blue eyes wants to scream, it's all his, HISHISHIS! He'll never be able to get enough, could get drunk off Jacob's whisky lips, shitfaced off Jacob's brandy neck, he fucking lives for it. A small, soft, quiet, gentle, (almost tangible, fucking almost), moan leaves Troye's mouth when Jacob pulls away with his lip still bitten on Troye's tugging on it, till he decides to let go.

"All yours." Jacob replies breathlessly, a bit confused, but who is he to not roll with it? Troye smirks to himself, silently cheering himself for showing the group of teenagers his relationship wasn't to be whispered about.

"We can meet at our spot once the game is over right?" Troye asks, seeing Jacob's coach call for him.

"Always, I gotta run babe." Jacob says before he starts to jog away.

"You better win!" Troye shouts after him, to which Jacob cockily brags,

"I always do!"

Troye rolls his eyes, but whispers to himself 'Yes, you do.' Which makes Troye feel absolutely incredible. It always hits him at times like this, that he is dating Jacob Bixenman, he gets to call him 'boyfriend' ('love', 'babe', 'baby', 'my boy', 'mine'.) He feels like a supernova oozing with star dust that will rest in the darkness of space, giving it neon light, in the endlessness that is his universe. (Even though he's terrified of space.) He feels like he's in a constant state of a warm milk bath, dabbled with rose petals and the scent of lavender dipped in love. All because of Jacob, all because of his Jacob.

All his.

***

Four minutes before the game ends, Troye walks down the bleachers once more to use the restroom. His nose crinkles up at the smell of the obvious use, one of the lights is flickering and the washroom itself feels damp. Troye reluctantly relieves himself, washing his hands thoroughly, scrubbing between his pretty fingers. He hears the distant sound of the buzzer, loud cheers and hollers. He looks at himself in the mirror, smiling softly before the sound of students filing out of the football arena.

Troye quirks up a bit when the door to the bathroom is opened, he's confused to see a few members from the other team walk in, especially when they slam the door harshly. This is the restroom for the public, the teams all have a locker room they're supposed to use. Troye swallows thickly, adjusting his bag and heads for the door as the group of boys stare him down intently. However, Troye gasps once he feels a tight hand locked around his wrist, he turns to face a pasty face covered in sweat looking at him threateningly. Troye tries to yank his arm away, tugging forcefully, a pit of anxiety is already beginning to bubble deep in his stomach. He gasps once more as a pair of feet shuffle towards the door, turning the lock and placing the garbage can overflowing with paper towel against the door. The boy's grip became tighter, which made Troye start to panic more.

"Let me go," is all Troye choked out as tears began to flood his eyes, because suddenly this all felt way too familiar. The boy snarled as he flipped Troye around, practically picking him up and throwing him to another boy. He felt the sweaty jersey beneath his back, Troye thrashed around kicking his legs into the air as soon as he felt a hand begin to touch his face.

"#13 huh? Is that your boyfriend, hmm?" A harsh voice barked in his ear, slapping his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a faint red welt on his soft skin, smearing the blue glitter a bit. Troye cried out as someone roughly handled his small body, digging the back of their sticky palm into his side. Whimpers left the boys plump lips as he felt himself being thrown by his chest into the ground, his whole body ached when his back made impact on the dirty floor. A sharp kick into his side is what made Troye scream; he was lost in thought, his breaths too erratic to be safe for his lungs.

He felt the sharp nails of someone clawing his cheek, his pretty, baby boy, angel soft! skin being torn apart. A fresh trickle of blood sprinkled down his face, carving at his jawline but full in the apples of his cheeks, the tiniest of bits seeping down his chin, little droplets hitting his jeans. A pure shout of agony came from the boy when he felt a cleated foot ram into his ribcage, the metal spikes from the football show stung the worse. With a few more kicks to his side, one to his little stomach, he felt tears in his shirt beginning to form as the seams fell apart. A particularly hard kick came with a crack inside his body, which made the group of boys stand back a little bit. Their eyes widened slightly as much they realized how much pain they'd caused Troye.

Smirks spread across a few of their faces, a worried look on one or two of them. Tears were falling down Troye's cheek, mixing with the blood as he cried for help. The pasty skinned boy stood above Troye, spitting in his face before opening a bottle of energy drink up. He took a sip of the sugary blue, then turned it upside down abruptly, covering Troye's ripped shirt in sticky liquid. The defeated boy cried out as some managed to find it's way into his open wounds, stinging him harshly. Another picks up Troye's bag from the ground, dumping the contents out, taking everything Troye had packed for Jacob. He left behind only Troye's spare water bottle and phone, which was a relief to the younger.

The group of students laugh, walking away after a few more punches and kicks to Troye. The younger boy shakes in fear as the ringleader kneels down to be face to face with him. The boy roughly pulls Troye's soaked hair, slapping him harshly across the face before laughing crookedly.

"That's what your boyfriend gets when I have to go back home and tell everyone a fag beat us. Stay away, open your mouth and you'll wish you hadn't."

Troye cries out once more as the group of boys leave, laughing at his pleading moans. He begs for help, he's crying, no- sobbing into the ground. Help him. But, his wishes are to no avail as the boys leave the restroom. Crying out softly, Troye reaches for the door that is swinging shut, it's not use though. Troye can't get up, he doesn't know when he'll be able to. He just hopes someone comes in soon, and is praying to God Jacob is okay. (He doesn't know it but the boys paste an 'Out of Order' sign on the door, leaving him completely and utterly, helpless.

***


	8. WITHOUT YOU

Jacob finds Troye after 30 minutes, he finds his lover with his heart spilled on the ground, and a bruised cheek. He's covered in water, drenched in exasperation, his whole body is screaming, 'help me.' Troye withers, he's squirming around on the ground, where a small puddle of bile, maybe even a bit of blood. The sound of the door whipping open makes Troye move away so fast, he's terrified, he doesn't even know it's Jacob. He just thinks someone is there to hurt him. Jacob rushes down, falling to his knees before taking Troye's hand, running over it smoothly.

"Troye, can you hear me?" Jacob asks softly, taking in his broken boyfriend's appearance. He feels a little bit sick to his stomach, he's angry at himself, what happened to Troye? Why wasn't he there to stop it? He's sitting there, sweaty knees, tears behind his eyes, his heart is sitting melted at his feet. Troye is hurt. The blue-eyed boy groans out quietly, making Jacob's heart ache, his head is pounding. "Hey, hey baby, take it easy for me." Troye nods, painfully curling onto his side, pitiful whimper slip from his lips, taking stuttered breaths while he searches for safety. Jacob pulls his phone from his pocket, Troye feels like he's wading underwater, white noise is pounding in his ears while dots begin to form at the corners of his eyelids. Jacob pulls up the keypad, 911, Troye turns to face his boyfriend, giving him a weak-willed smile before he falls into the darkness

***

The waiting room is an anxiety disorder waiting to be diagnosed, filled with pills, tears, and the hope that someone you love (loved?) is okay. Yearning for a sense of stability is something that often attracts those who have never had a home to call their own or a heart they feel they've never been entitled to. It's almost a game of, 'Are you lucky enough?' it'll make you think about the last time you won a round of poker. It may leave you a bit empty when you realize that your pile of red chips, just may not be enough. The waiting room smells like plastic, it'll leave your skin feeling artificial. (Troye once told Jacob, 'It feels like a bunch of synthetic skin, lost remembrances of everything that would've been. The doctors still get paid in the end.) The waiting room is dark, sure the lights that shine brightly, blinding you from seeing anything, pleading you to forget why you're here, even though it'll be something you're sure to remember. Jacob supposes that what love can feel like sometimes, blindly hoping with you're living on a prayer.

(Here's how falling in love goes: you don't know its happening until the falling is absolutely irreversible and there is no way you won't hit the ground. Jacob thought he was invincible though, he was positive he would never fall in love. Growing up, of course, he had his school boy crushes, times where his middle school mates placed bets on who would get the first quickie in a bathroom stall. But, never, not in a million years had being someone's long-term boyfriend crossed his mind. He didn't really care, there was never a person he thought was worth spending forever with. It's nothing he never really understood, and he was never dying to learn that either.

Troye changes that. Because, fuck, every time Jacob looks into his bright blue eyes, Jacob swears, crosses his heart and hopes to die, he's looking into his future. Troye just clicks something in his heart, the way his curls flop over when he laughs or the way his breaths even out in a matter of minutes after a day of swimming. Every time the whole accidentally touch hands, or when their hands swing too far, sprinkling light touches to each other's thighs. Jacob thrives off it, it's like oxygen to him, keeping his lungs working and blood flowing. His head is always a little fuzzy around Troye, and his mind seems to be a constant continuation of MelletMelletMellet. Jacob thinks he feels like the tiny, baby, yellow flowers that fall on the ground, turning the dirt into a sea of hope at the Metro station.

It's kind of like when Troye is sitting the hammock outside, adjacent to the to the dock that sits in the calm lake water. Soft, beautiful, pliant and oh so tangible Troye is swinging along in the sun. His ultramarines are deeper than the water, his pink lips are curled up with the face of glee as he laughs at the paperback book in his hand. It's 'Absolute True Diary of a Part-time Indian' and Troye clearly loves it; the pages are bent and there's marking on the tips of the paper, little sticky notes sticking out showing off Troye's pretty, old-fashioned cursive.)

Bittersweet clots flow through Jacob's bloodstream when it hits him how vulnerable they really are. Sweet, tender, tangible Troye was still able to slip through his fingers. Jacob has never felt so useless in his life, he promised to keep his baby safe and he couldn't even do that.) The waiting room scares Jacob because he's worried he will have to change things from past to present tense. He hopes that those words are not truthful because the author of this book isn't capable of figuring them out.

Troye has spoken to Jacob about this before, the way it feels to hold the hatred in your heart, the so fucking tangible idea that everyone he knows will die. It scares him because Troye does not want to be consumed, he wants to make a house his home, and he wants to be something. It'll keep him up at night, he feels the stuck on yellowness of his father's death, the caramel lips, and the idea that he grew up with only a mother. He knows he will never forget the pain that his fingers have brushed, the devastation that he knows everything happens for a reason. (He wants to know the damn reason already, Troye is so tired of waiting. He's so tired.)

His memories are snippets of piggyback rides, curly hair, chipped sunglasses, and the big leather rocking chair he sits in to cry himself to sleep because Troye swears he can still feel his father's heartbeat resting. The realization that his father was taken away when he was 9, the wrenching of his guts that might as well have been pulled it, he has since decided it would've been less painful. Counting days in which Troye feels fine is pointless because Troye will never feel fine with a hole in his heart.

Jacob has learned to count the neck kisses, warm moments that not even the coolest of hands could dampen. Jacob understands that the feeble tears that fuel Troye's midnight fears are necessary because Troye is healing, this is the healing. His hazel eyes are picking up on a new language of salt water, broken promises, cherry bubblegum. Jacob has since sat in cathedrals, praying to God, raising his hands the glass stained ceiling, that his sins will be forgiven, that Troye will be content for the rest of his days. He's learned a new scripture in the palms of a boy he is desperately trying to baptize himself in.

"Visitor for Troye Mellet?" A voice says from a swung open door, Jacob has never jumped up so quickly. He wipes his hands against his jeans, giving the nurse a quick nod before walking over. He turns his head to give one last glance to the waiting room. There are a few people sitting in the plastic chairs, Jacob feels almost indifferent towards himself, because what are they thinking? His heart drops a bit when he sees a young girl, her hair braided back, her hand locked with an elderly woman. The pair seems worried, anxiety sweeping over the tiny girl, the paleness, the lack of sleep, water too, evident in eyes that don't know what to prepare themselves for. He can't help but think of Troye.

The walk down the hallway is eerily silent, Jacob can count the number of footsteps the nurse in front of him takes, the way the brown skinned woman's feet scuff against the ground four times. His scans the closed doors, the lights pour through the bottoms, he can't help but wonder what happens when they turn off. (Why did they?) The nurse stops at a door, giving the hazel eyed boy a soft smile, opening the door for him, laying her hand out in the air to gesture him in. Jacob's heart stops for a few seconds, breathing deeply, his head peering around the curtain.

"Jakey.." Troye's voice croaks, his eyes are puffy, smile wide, dripping bittersweet. Jacob holds back a choked sob, seeing his love with an IV stuck through his thin arm, a monitor tracking his heartbeat, a pale green gown sitting loosely against his small frame. Troye holds his arms out, his eyes wide, his boyfriend crashes into him, holding him against his chest. Jacob's eyes are wide, a few tears slip down his face as he takes the back of Troye's hands, pressing baby kisses into his pearl skin. Troye pats the empty space next to him, silently begging Jacob to join him on the bed. Jacob climbs up, Troye immediately cuddling into his warm side, pressing his head into Jacob's neck.

Jacob cooes a bit, playing with Troye's chocolate curls, tips baby brown, extra curly in the back.

"What did they do to you? What did they do to my boy?" Jacob asks gently, his fingers continuing to find their way through his scalp. Troye just shrugs sadly, pointing to his left side, Jacob peers his head over as Troye lifts his gown. His skin is bandaged, still, there are visible bruises bubbling on his pale skin, the purple screaming while it mixes with black and blue.

"Broke a rib," Troye mumbles half-heartedly, curling into his boyfriend, wincing as his skin shifts. Jacob feels his blood began to boil, his knuckles tucking themselves into fists, his breathing becomes labored in literal seconds. His heart screams at seeing Troye so down, his mind is a fight of, you should've been there, you're going to kill them, fault, Troye, help him, help him, help him. "Mm, Jake stop, it's okay, 'M fine, I'm okay, you're here now."

Jacob nods slowly, breathing out slowly, sometimes he isn't able to comprehend how calm his Troye really is. It seems to slip from his mind, he passively dismisses the serenity that comes along with the rain kisses that are his blue eyed Gemini. He forgets too often that his boy is not all creme sheets mixed with smooth legs, defined collar bones that jut at their isthmus'. Facts remain the same, Troye is familiar with cracked wood, splinters in his skin that make his heart bleed the same way his skin rips on the sidewalk.

(It sometimes is hard for Jacob to process, the face that Troye's soul is connected the detrimental understanding that everyone he loves is one day going to die. Troye sometimes stays up all night, letting the blues eat up his thighs while he succumbs to brittle boned thoughts of losing the ones he loves more than anyone. Dirt lays underneath his fingertips, layers of trying to forget- no, trying to cover up what once was everything to him. Troye loves hard, he gives his whole heart to anyone, it doesn't matter if they have slippery fingers. He lays in a bed of rose petals, ones that crinkle at the edges, pink, white, red, dripping in broken promises, screaming behind his throat. Pearls that round his neck, cool on his throat, resting softly, a constant reminder that they're older than his Mum, they'll outlive his children. It's a constant state of dark, not feeling at home if he's not wrapped in the arms of someone who knows his gnawing fear that constantly is flowing through his bloodstream.

Troye has always supposed it was the aftermath of learning that life is always replaceable but people are not when he should have been learning his time's tables. Troye has always been known to admire the simplest things in life, the way rain feels on his skin while the sun continues to shine through the clouds, Jacob's morning hugs, the dip in his hip bones that turn warm in the summer. Troye is able to curl into himself, shut out everything around him if it becomes too much, he's made a habit of blaming himself, his vocabulary once consisting of feeble tears edging over his eyelids, blue turning gray.

Rapture clouds his mind every time he finds himself swaying against his lover's chest, falling into the beat of his heart, the rhythm of his breaths is what he lives by. He sees stars when Jacob wraps his arm tightly around his waist, fitting in just above the soft, delicate curve just above his navel. Sometimes, when Jacob comes over late, he'll bring Troye a soft drink, buy him sticky, red licorice, pet his hair, and teach him how to love himself in the process.)

Jacob cuddles closer to his boyfriend, inhaling the scent of his strawberry shampoo. His hand wrapped around Troye's palm, squeezing it gently, the safe reminder that Jacob will always be there for him. He focuses on the sound of the heart monitor, falling in love with the constant, robotic beep. It's a dangerous thought, but Jacob decides right then to make a forever in moments that he can capture a heartbeat in. Completely at ease, Troye falls asleep against his love, listening contently to the river that is Jacob's love.

(The little moments like this are the ones Troye will always hold onto, the familiar feeling of Jacob's love wrapped around his heart. The warmth coming from having his inamorato pressed against his skin, cleaning out all his wounds, stitching his skin, then kissing every scar that has ever been left. When Troye understands that he will still feel hurt, but he's finally learned to understand pain is temporary. He is able to let it all sit in his hands, rest gently in his palms, and feel completely okay. It feels old like he's held it since the day he was born, but that's okay. Home always feels the same.)

**Author's Note:**

> this used to be on wattpad, im no longer happy on there so im moving my fics here <3


End file.
